It’s rare that I have nothing to say, particularly when there’s so much happening, but the fact is I’ve entered a strange late pregnancy isolation. My brain feels tightly locked up, as though it’s shutting down all but essential functions. There’s lots to do to feel fully prepared for this baby’s arrival but I’m moving at a snail’s pace, physically and mentally. Somehow though we’ve managed to get the house looking acceptable, hospital bags are packed and I’m choosing to have faith that my husband still remembers how to fasten in a Maxi-Cosi Cabriofix car seat. We’ve got this.
I went to the hospital for my pre-op appointment today and it was a really strange experience. The last time I walked those corridors I was in a daze. I was desperate to be out of there. It was like an out-of-body experience, I don’t remember my feet ever touching the floor, though I have plenty of memories of the sounds of babies crying, alarms ringing, new mums whispering to their little ones, and the pervasive smell of chlorine. I was hit by it all again today and at first it sent me spinning. I was sat in a waiting room surrounded by photographs of smiling parents and I wanted to hide. Every instinct told me to run away.
But I didn’t. I stayed, and gradually the fog lifted and I saw it for what it was; a normal hospital ward, bright and warm, filled with smiles, laughter and the sound of brand new voices making themselves heard for the very first time. I saw a woman being wheeled in her hospital bed to her place on the ward, baby in her arms, and I immediately recognised her expression; exhausted, confused but oddly tranquil. I recognised it because I experienced it once too, more than two years ago, and it was a beautiful reminder that despite everything, despite the traumatic labour and pain that followed I was still a new mum riding the wave of love and hormones. In that moment I was no different from anyone else.
I finally realised today that I can change the story. I’m not the same person and my life doesn’t follow a script. I can make things different and if I’m strong enough to get through all that happened with Tristan I can be equal to this too, no matter how it goes. I’ve got this.
What I’m most aware of is how much things will change for T, and that he seemingly has no idea that it’s coming. I’ve explained but he has an ‘out of sight, out of mind’ mentality that’s common to lots of toddlers. I don’t know whether he really knows what it means that Mummy has a baby growing inside her. I’ve explained that I’ll be going in to hospital and that when I come home he’ll have a baby brother or sister, but there’s no way of knowing how much he’s absorbing as he still isn’t very verbal.
I hate feeling that I’m taking something away from him. I try to remind myself that in doing this I’m augmenting his life, giving him something in the way of friendship and socialising that he could potentially lack with two introverted parents. And when I doubt that I have the strength to do it, to raise two tiny humans, I ask myself what do I have in infinite amounts, what resource will never run out that I can give to my son indefinitely?
I have love. I have so fucking much of it I feel as though it’ll burst its banks and come flooding out of me in a great tidal wave that’ll drench everything in sloppy kisses and glitter. That won’t change for him, he will always have that. And I know my heart well enough to know that there’s a bottomless reservoir tucked away for this baby too, building up and up, ready to carry me off on a new journey of motherhood.
Perhaps PND will be part of that journey. Perhaps not. It’s funny how of all my fears, that one isn’t the loudest or strongest. I’ve beaten it before, I can do it again. I’ve learned how to talk and heal, how to be vulnerable and how to put my adult face on and get on with the day. I helped nurture my son this far and PND was part of his story too, and he is this incredible little person, and all the testament I need that I can do this. I’ve got this.
This will be the last time I post here before my life changes forever. I’m scared, excited, jittery and oddly calm, and the funny thing is that it doesn’t feel as though I’m going in for a C-section; it feels as though they’ll be operating on my heart, opening it up and pumping it full of new emotions and experiences. I’m terrified. But I’m also happy beyond words.
I’ve got this.